Continual Distractions of a Scattered Mind

Main menu

Post navigation

Why is Exercising at Home so Hard?

I started trying to exercise at home 3 months post-partum with Elliot. A replicable correlation existed between his screaming and the first televised frame including a pony-tail/sports-bra wearing person.

Since I agreed with his peevish irritation at these women–- and their functioning pelvic floors-– I was quick to turn them off in favor potato chip. Or 50.

I considered joining a gym, with childcare. But they are expensive and none of them send a limo to my house forcing me to actually go. Exercising at home is so hard– but going somewhere else to do it is harder. For me.

A) Refusing to run at night while still B) wanting to run should logically result in C) waking up earlier.

Logic– she be a bitch. Attempts at molding myself into a cheerful, alarm-clock setting, morning person continue to be completely unsuccessful.

Wait– you are a morning person; 2 AM is the morning. Technically, yes– but unhelpful for my purposes as I’m certain that most of those running at 2 AM are being chased.

All of the above frippery merely to announce that I queued a bunch of fitness/dance/yoga videos on youtube so I could torture Elliot workout in the afternoon.

I’ve asked Elliot to join me– especially with the kick-boxing– to which he responds by gently suggesting that I’ve lost my damn mind.

He and I– we’ve got a thing.

Thus, imagine my surprise, when during the belly dancing portion (don’t judge– have you seen the curves on traditional belly-dancers? Obviously these are my people), E sat up from his self-imposed couch prison, cocked an eyebrow, and said,

“wow, mom. You can really shake your butt!”

I’ve decided that he’s complimenting my superior dance moves, rather than commenting on the jiggle in my wiggle. But I sneaked cauliflower into his lasagna as revenge, just in case.

Creative Commons/Copyright Information

Once upon a time I was an English major-- creative writing to be exact. Perhaps that's why I get so personally offended by plagiarism.
Knowingly stealing the words/ideas/images from someone else-- without giving appropriate credit-- makes you a douchebag. All words, thoughts, photos, and ideas are protected by
Creative Commons.